


A Merger of Equals

by SoldierThirstClass (HardNoctLife)



Series: Terms of Engagement [1]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Authority Figures, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Canon Universe, Conflicted Tseng, Dom/sub Play, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Gay Sex, Light BDSM, Lust, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Rufrus Shinra is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardNoctLife/pseuds/SoldierThirstClass
Summary: “If you choose to go out that door, we will never speak of this again,” Rufus declares. “But if you stay, you belong to me, body and soul.”Tseng feels the gravity of the moment intimately, and it stirs a visceral reaction inside him. He trembles, not from fear, but from the animalistic need to be wanted. The need to be protected, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Needs he thought he buried years ago.Rufus Shinra can give him that and more. He can give him the world.--In which Rufus and Tseng come to a mutually beneficial agreement.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Series: Terms of Engagement [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772869
Comments: 22
Kudos: 138





	A Merger of Equals

**Author's Note:**

> A 'merger of equals' is when two firms of about the same size come together to form a single new company. In a merger of equals, shareholders from both firms surrender their shares and receive securities issued by the new company. Companies may merge to gain market share or expand into new segments of their existing market. Usually, a merger of equals will increase shareholder value.

The executive lounge has the feeling of dust settling after a bomb has been dropped, the ominous silence holding the expectation that another attack could come at any moment. 

One man sits at the end of a long table in the glow of the Shinra emblem illuminated behind him, sipping from a glass of champagne nonchalantly, seemingly untouched by recent events. He’s young and handsome, with platinum blond hair and a face that doesn’t quite match the austerity of his white suit until you look into his steely blue eyes. 

He is Rufus Shinra, newly appointed President of the Shinra Electric Power Company. 

Tseng clears his throat to announce himself as he enters the room, watching as Rufus’ head turns towards him. 

“Mr. President.”

The man smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. They are eyes that are hardened from years of carnage and clawing his way up the company ladder, reflecting knowledge beyond their years, and they remain cold and emotionless as Tseng comes closer. The Turks’ leader feels a shiver crawl down his spine. You would never be able to guess that Rufus’ father had died mere hours before.

“I will never tire of hearing that,” Rufus half-sighs, half-chuckles. “Join me, Tseng. Let us celebrate.” 

Tseng hesitates briefly, adjusting his tie out of habit before finding the chair across the table from his boss. He lowers himself into it carefully, watching as the new president retrieves a champagne flute for him from the nearby bar cart and pours bubbling gold liquid into it. 

When Rufus holds it out, Tseng accepts it but doesn’t drink, waiting to be invited to do so. Reassuming his position, the president holds his glass up by the stem and smirks. 

“To the future of Shinra,” he drawls. 

“To the future,” Tseng echoes. There is a musical clink when their glasses collide, and the men drink, Rufus taking large gulps while Tseng sips politely. The Turk is still technically on the clock, and his focus must be on protecting the president from AVALANCHE, Sephiroth, and whatever else fate decides to throw at them. For that, he must keep his wits about him.

“Something’s on your mind,” Rufus murmurs. Like always, he is able to read Tseng in a way that no one else can.

 _Like recognizes like_ , Tseng thinks to himself, though it is odd to compare himself to someone who is essentially his social and cultural opposite. 

“It’s nothing to concern yourself with,” he deflects, taking another sip of the champagne. 

The weight of Rufus’ gaze falls on Tseng. Its strength is something he still hasn’t grown accustomed to even after years in Shinra’s service. 

_It’s those eyes_. 

“I’ll be the one to determine that. You _are_ my business, if you recall,” Rufus reminds him, pushing his now empty glass aside. Others might take offense to the statement, but it’s a fact, one that Tseng readily accepts. 

Bowing his head, the Turks’ leader concedes the point. “I am wondering what’s next,” he admits, then pauses before providing clarification. “Now that you have achieved the presidency as intended.” 

There’s a gleam in Rufus’ eyes when Tseng looks up, a smile uncoiling in serpentine fashion across the president’s mouth. His words, spoken with unwavering confidence, inspire admiration and fear in equal measure.

“The world, of course.”

It’s the second bomb, and its detonation renders Tseng shell-shocked, though it shouldn’t come as a surprise. Rufus’ aspirations have never been what one would call modest, even in the face of death and disownment. Despite having been exiled by his own father for his treasonous plans years prior, the rebellious heir had held onto the idea that he would one day obtain Shinra’s throne, his rightful birthright and inheritance. And now, here he sits, the King of Midgar. Unlike the former president, Tseng has no doubt that Rufus will rule with an iron fist, crushing anyone who stands in his way.

“And what is next for you?” Rufus’ question is the equivalent of drawing a line in the sand.

_Are you for me, or against me?_

This time, it is Tseng who smiles. “I would like to see how the story ends,” he answers elusively. They both know that he passed the point of no return ages ago. He has seen and heard too much to be allowed to walk away. Being a Turk is his life, and it will most certainly be his death. “It is an honor to serve under you, Mr. President.” 

It earns him a rare laugh from Rufus, and the man sits back in his chair to cross one leg over the other. 

“Not under,” he corrects coyly. “At my side.” 

Tseng eyes the man warily, unsure whether to take his words at face value or not. It’s not like Rufus to be sentimental, but then again, he _did_ just achieve one of his lifetime goals. It’s easier to attribute the kindness to his good mood, rather than genuine affection.

 _Rufus Shinra,_ care _for me_? Tseng scoffs at the notion, only realizing belatedly that he did so out loud. 

“You think I’m joking?” Rufus nods as if he expected as much. “The Turks weren’t used to their full potential under my father’s leadership. I _won’t_ make the same mistake, but for them to be effective, they will need to trust me. Luckily, you already have their trust. Our continued partnership is essential to Shinra’s success.” 

It’s a practical strategy, and Tseng can see how the Turks might mutually benefit if he becomes the president’s confidant. They will be protected, untouchable within the organization. At the same time, Tseng is no stranger to the complicated slew of responsibilities and expectations that will come with it. It’s too important to accept on a whim, yet the president is clearly waiting for an answer. 

Rufus drums his fingers across the table impatiently, interrupting Tseng’s mental acrobatics. “Well?” he prods. “Do I have your cooperation, Tseng?”

To ask for more time to consider the proposition would undoubtedly be interpreted as rejecting it outright, and although Tseng is well-acquainted with making life-or-death decisions at a moment’s notice, very rarely do those decisions directly impact him.

He is left with only one choice. Sweat beading on his forehead, Tseng stands abruptly, keeping his expression neutral as he bends at the waist. His long black hair falls forward like a curtain.

“It would be an honor to serve at your side, Mr. President.” 

Something shifts in the silence then, and there is a light rustle of fabric and belt buckles as Rufus gets to his feet. Tseng begins to straighten, only to feel a hand reach out and grip him lightly by the chin. He freezes, eyes flitting up to the man the hand belongs to, and he swallows hard as he meets Rufus’ gaze.

There is a childlike wonder in his eyes now, and it chips away at the wall of ice that acts as a shield, revealing something warm within. 

Tseng doesn’t trust it, and he holds his breath while waiting for the moment to pass, but instead Rufus runs a thumb lightly over the Turk’s cheek before trailing it to the corner of his mouth. It hooks there, pulling his lips open lightly, and Tseng’s eyes flutter closed, surprised by the heat that sears through him from the simple touch. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, but he isn’t sure if it’s from fear or excitement. Maybe it’s both.

He has the sudden urge to cocoon his lips around Rufus’ calloused finger, to suck the man’s thumb into his mouth and treat it as if it were a different organ entirely, and the Turk’s tongue flits against the president’s skin as if of its own accord before Tseng pulls it back in alarm. 

Rufus hums in what Tseng translates as approval, and blood rushes into his face from embarrassment, mortified by his egregious breach of professionalism. Slowly, the president pulls his hand away, letting it fall to his side. Tseng has to resist the urge to take a gasping breath as he releases stagnant air from his lungs. Trembling, he finally straightens the rest of the way, taking a step back while keeping his eyes downcast.

He waits to be dismissed, each passing second adding to his agony. Finally, Rufus speaks. “Thank you, Tseng. That will be all.” 

He’s never turned on his heel so quickly, and he is nearly to the door when Rufus calls out to him casually.

“Oh, and Tseng?” The Turk pauses, hand gripping the door handle. “I will be in my room in fifteen minutes if you are inclined to continue this conversation. I’m looking forward to our...partnership.” 

With a terse nod, Tseng steps into the hall, immediately making a bee line for the nearest bathroom. He’s relieved to find it empty, and he bends over one of the sinks, turning the cold water on full blast with a wrenching of the faucet. Not giving it a second thought, he plunges his face into the stream of liquid, sputtering as the spray cools his burning skin, but does little to calm the blood that is rushing to other areas of his body. 

“Get a hold of yourself.” He glares at himself in the mirror, but he cannot keep Rufus’ offer from echoing in his mind. 

_I will be in my room in fifteen minutes if you are inclined to continue this conversation. I’m looking forward to our...partnership._

“Fuck,” Tseng curses, burrying his face in his hands. 

Making life-or-death decisions suddenly seems preferable to whatever _this_ is. His mind is racing, trying to weigh the pros and cons of accepting or rejecting Rufus’ lascivious offer. 

_Is this another test?_ Certainly, whatever decision Tseng ultimately makes will set the tone going forward, but he has no idea which is the _right_ one. 

When he closes his eyes, the Turk can feel the thickness of the president’s thumb against the inside of his cheek. He shudders involuntarily, dismayed by his own arousal. All these years and he never realized until this moment that he had anything other than professional admiration for Rufus.

Tseng pats his face dry with a paper towel from a nearby dispenser and leans against the wall, letting his head fall back against it. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing in his neck and takes several deep breaths in an attempt to calm it.

 _Can I have my cake and eat it too?_ he wonders. 

Almost instantly, the thought sparks an idea, and he scrambles to retrieve his phone from out of his jacket pocket. Scrolling through his contacts, he finds the name he is looking for and hits ‘call.’ 

Reno picks up on the third ring. “Yeah, boss?” his subordinate answers gruffly.

Keeping his voice level, Tseng speaks quietly into the receiver. “Reno, I need you to call me with an emergency in approximately twenty minutes.”

“Huh? What kind of–” 

Tseng clenches the phone, barely biting back an irritated growl. “Just do as I ask. Make something up for all I care.” 

“Alright, alright.” Reno blows out a breath in annoyance. “Twenty minutes. You got it boss.” 

“Thank you.” Tseng is relieved, and he chooses not to address the younger Turk’s skepticism. He hangs up without further explanation and leaves the bathroom with renewed resolve. Entering the elevator down the hall, he swipes his keycard to take him to the floor that houses the president’s personal suite. 

It isn’t until he is standing in front of the president’s doors that he begins to have second thoughts. He paces back and forth, doubt creeping in.

_What if Reno doesn’t call? Or what if the president becomes angry? My career may never recover from this._

He stops himself before he comes to the morbid conclusion that more than his career may be at stake if things end poorly. There is still time for him to walk away, that is, until he hears the turning of a lock, the door opening a crack.

“Are you going to stand there, or are you going to come in?” Rufus’ voice inquires airily. 

Swallowing what remains of his fear, Tseng pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps inside. It’s the first time that he sees the presidential suite with his own eyes, though he has been shown pictures and heard stories of it, most of them involving crude gossip surrounding the former president and his infamous mistresses. The carpet is blood red, and the decorations consist of gaudy gold frames on the wall displaying past Shinra executives, including Rufus’ parents, who are featured prominently over the four-post, canopied bed. The bed itself is on a raised dais in the center of the room, and it evokes the image of a stage as Tseng’s eyes flit across it. In the opposite corner of the room is a giant claw-foot tub and freestanding shower encased in glass, and the Turk tries not to think too hard about Rufus naked and dripping wet inside them. It’s old-fashioned, but luxurious all the same.

_Fit for a king._

Rufus is watching Tseng from where he is sitting on the edge of an impressive desk, crafted from darkened wood. Behind him is a large window, which provides a breathtaking view of Midgar, the glittering lights of the city outshining the stars overhead. When Tseng finally gives the president his full attention, he notes how Rufus has removed his coat and suit jacket, leaving him in fitted white pants and a black dress shirt and tie.

“I wasn’t sure if you would come,” Rufus admits, placing his hands behind him and leaning back. 

Tseng stays just inside the doorway, keeping a respectful distance, but he can already feel desire stirring in his lower body, betraying him. Realizing that he isn’t going to comment, Rufus pushes himself upright and approaches slowly, as smooth as a predator stalking its prey.

Disbelief anchors Tseng in place as the president comes to stand before him, reaching a hand up to the Turk’s face much in the same way he did before. This time, Tseng leans into it, a thrill of excitement going through him on contact. Rufus’ laugh is short and low, possibly incredulous, but the man doesn’t pull away, instead studying Tseng with a critical gaze. 

“If you choose to go out that door, we will never speak of this again,” Rufus declares. “But if you stay, you belong to me, body and soul.” 

Tseng feels the gravity of the moment intimately, and it stirs a visceral reaction inside him. He trembles, not from fear, but from the animalistic need to be wanted. He thought he had buried the need years ago. The need to be protected, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Rufus Shinra can give him that and more. He can give him the world. 

“And what do I get in return?” Tseng questions quietly.

“Ha!” Rufus retreats a couple of steps, hands sliding into his pants’ pockets, but now he’s smiling. “A true businessman. I wouldn’t expect anything less from my partner.” The president turns in a wide circle about the room as he considers the question. Tseng desperately wants to know what Rufus is thinking, but knows better than to press. Finally, he stops, eyes coming to rest on the frowning portrait of his father and mother hanging over the bed.

“I promise to be loyal to you, and you alone. You may ask me for anything and it will be provided to you, within reason, of course. All your basic needs will be met. However, it should go without saying, but this arrangement will require your discretion and unquestioning obedience. Will that suffice?”

Tseng lets the information sink in before muttering, “Perhaps a formal contract is in order.” 

Rufus turns an entirely different smile on the Turk then, more devious than the last. “That can be arranged.” 

“Why me?” Tseng demands suddenly. It’s not the most polite way to get the answer he seeks, but with every passing minute he can feel his professionalism slipping through his fingers. What Rufus is suggesting now gives them equal footing, an entirely different dynamic from that of employer and employee. They’re navigating unknown territory. 

“A life for a life,” Rufus shrugs. Tseng doesn’t need to ask to know what he is referring to. Years ago, he saved the president from certain death, and in turn, he spared the Turk when it counted most. It was the true beginning of their partnership. “Though it pains me to admit, I need someone I can trust.”

 _Someone he can emotionally blackmail_ , Tseng muses bitterly, but he can’t deny that the arrangement is enticing. To have such a powerful person in his corner–

The buzzing in Tseng’s pocket makes him jump. He had nearly forgotten the instructions given to Reno. Rufus raises an eyebrow as the Turk retrieves his cellphone, glancing down at the screen indecisively. 

“Is it important?” With the way the question is phrased, Tseng knows that Rufus expects the answer to be ‘no.’ No one is more important than him.

“No, it’s nothing,” Tseng agrees, silencing it before slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Write up the contract and send it to me for revisions,” he adds. 

Rufus arches one eyebrow with amusement. “I have a better suggestion. How about _you_ write up the contract, and I’ll sign it?” 

Tseng balks at the suggestion, instincts telling him it’s a trap. “Are you certain?”

"Did I stutter?”

Heat flashes through Tseng’s face again in light of the biting retort, and he bows apologetically, listening to the groan of the bed’s mattress as Rufus sits on it. “No, sir.”

“No, I didn’t. Now, where did we leave off?” His hooded gaze invasively scans Tseng’s body as it rights itself, gesturing for the Turk to come closer. 

Wetting his lips nervously, Tseng pads across the carpeted floor to stand in front of the president, stiffening slightly when the man squeezes his hip and tugs him onto one knee, throwing him off balance and forcing him to slam his other foot down to keep from toppling over. 

“If you want me to stop, you can say–”

“Veld,” Tseng blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. Rufus barely pauses, although Tseng thinks that he sees the president’s eyes widen briefly in surprise, or possibly distaste, he’s unsure. 

“Veld it is.” With that, Rufus tilts Tseng’s chin up with surprising gentleness, forcing their eyes to meet in a clash of dark and light. 

“I want to destroy you,” Rufus announces matter-of-factly. The understated manner in which he says it is almost comical; spoken casually as if he were discussing something as mundane as the weather, and yet it does something to Tseng’s insides that he can’t describe. Mostly, he’s just astonished by how much he wants it too. “But, I suppose that will have to wait until the contract is finalized.” The president’s tone turns teasing then, and he combs fingers through Tseng’s long hair, twirling a strand around one of them idly. 

In the short interlude that follows, Tseng notices the way in which his pants have grown tight in the crotch, his arousal throbbing against the inseam of his slacks. As if his thoughts can be heard aloud, Rufus clicks his tongue.

“If there is something you want, my pet, you need only ask.” It’s taunting yet playful, and only serves to make the Turk’s erection more unbearable. When he tries to turn his head away to hide his embarrassment, Rufus grips his chin tighter, forcing him to face forward. “Go on then.” 

“Mr. President, I…” Tseng takes a wavering breath before letting it out in a rush. “I want to serve you.”

“Interesting,” he muses, as if it doesn’t align with his original plans, but he’s already moving aside, guiding Tseng to sit on the bed next to him. The president kicks off his shoes and socks afterwards, simultaneously reaching up to loosen his tie, and Tseng clumsily does the same, amazed by how anxious he feels.

Most Turks avoid amorous relationships outside of casual hookups. They’re too much of a security risk. Tseng, unfortunately, falls into ‘most Turks’. In fact, he’s having a hard time remembering when he was last with anyone in this way, and finds himself wondering if Rufus will retract his offer if he finds their sex unsatisfying. It would be completely within his right to do so.

“Stop overthinking,” Rufus chides. “Relax.”

“With all due respect, sir, that’s easier said than done.” In his periphery, Tseng watches Rufus unbutton his shirt, eyeing the hardened muscle that is exposed. Once the shirt and tie are cast aside, the president lays back on the comforter, languidly unzipping his pants. Tseng can’t keep himself from staring.

Once he is sure that he has Tseng’s attention, Rufus reaches beneath the waistband of his underwear, dark cloth tented by his straining cock. He touches himself in lazy strokes, confident and unashamed to be on display. The other hand grips the back of his neck as his legs splay wide, and he smiles invitingly up at Tseng, who has just become aware that his mouth is hanging open. The Turk closes it abruptly, jaw clicking from how hard he clenches it.

“I’m waiting, my pet,” Rufus all but purrs. “I thought you wanted to serve me?”

Slowly, Tseng turns, getting on all fours. Crawling across the mattress, he positions himself over Rufus’ legs, watching appreciatively as the president pleasures himself.

“May I?” he whispers.

“Be my guest,” Rufus says, pulling his hand free of his underwear. 

Moving as if in slow motion, Tseng takes hold of the elastic and wriggles it over the noticeable bulge, exposing the president’s hard-on. He takes in the platinum hair that blazes a trail down to the man’s thick cock, its shaft already curling up towards his navel now that it is free of its fabric prison. Tseng feels the saliva pooling in his mouth in preparation, and he brings his lips down to the tip of Rufus’ erection, allowing his tongue to flick over it like it did the president’s thumb. Rufus lies still, not making any sound or providing direction, choosing instead to observe. 

After a few tentative licks, Tseng drags his tongue down the shaft before taking the bulk of it into his mouth. Rufus grunts in approval when he hollows out his cheeks, mouth forming a tight ‘o’ around the man’s girth. He begins to bob his head back and forth, developing a rhythm. He hears Rufus give a satisfied sigh. Not long after, Tseng feels fingers curl into his dark hair and take hold, squeezing in encouragement. 

Now that he has given in, Tseng moves in a frantic haze, lustful need driving him recklessly forward at an alarming speed. He sees the long black strands of his hair blanket over Rufus’ pale legs, hears himself moaning and whining like a bitch in heat, feels his muscles straining into every casual caress–but there is nothing stronger than the presence of the president’s hand on his head, guiding him every so often to adjust his speed or the angle in which he jams the man’s cock into the back of his throat.

There is never a doubt of who is truly in control, and it’s thrilling and terrifying all at once.

He should feel ashamed, he thinks, but he doesn’t. Not in the slightest. Instead, he feels powerful. 

Their lovemaking goes on for some time. Several minutes? An hour? There is no clock on the wall, and the dim light from the lamp on the nightstand and the glow of the city remains unchanged by the time Rufus yanks Tseng’s head back by his hair, panting in silent warning. 

Tseng’s scalp is stinging, but his own arousal drowns out the pain, and he looks to Rufus, waiting for an order. That’s when he sees it. Rufus’ blue eyes look soft, their usual edge nowhere to be found. Tseng’s heart jumps into his throat. 

“I want to come on your face,” Rufus says, but his voice is strange, _vulnerable_. “Is that…” He looks at a loss for words, another first. “Will you allow it?”

Being asked by the most powerful man in Midgar for permission is never something Tseng thought he would experience in his lifetime. It’s oddly flattering.

“Yes. What would you have me–”

“Kneel on the floor,” Rufus interrupts, sitting up and kicking his pants off the rest of the way. 

Hurrying to obey, Tseng slips off the bed, knees hitting the floor hard. He has a fleeting sense of practicality, wondering if they should put something down to protect the carpet, but then Rufus is standing naked in front of him and all of the Turk’s concerns vanish instantly.

He watches as the president takes his own cock firmly in hand once more, wielding it like a swordsman might one’s weapon, with skill and familiarity. The opposite hand cups Tseng’s face again, fingers prying his mouth open. 

“Keep your eyes on me,” the president says as he pumps his shaft vigorously. 

Tseng does. He wants to take in every detail of Rufus; the outline of his abdominal muscles, the vein running the length of his cock, the hair on his legs and between them, the color of his nipples, but most of all, his eyes, which are a deep sea blue, twin pools that Tseng wants to get lost in.

Rufus moans when he finally comes, and Tseng’s eyelids squeeze closed to protect them from the sticky ejaculate that drips onto his face. The majority lands in his mouth, and he swallows the salty-sweetness before reaching up to wipe away the excess. When he manages to reopen his eyes, Rufus’ is slack-jawed, face-flushed from exertion. 

Neither of them speak as the president turns, finding a nearby high-backed armchair, the sort you would see in old libraries, and drags it in front of Tseng. Plopping into it, the president gestures vaguely to Tseng.

“Go on, finish.”

It’s a jarring transition, but Tseng stands, releasing his own erection from his slacks without ceremony. Rufus props his head in one hand to watch, breathing beginning to slow now. His smile is that of a sunbathing cat that has just gorged itself on milk: utterly content.

Tseng has never masturbated in front of anyone before, but it’s not as awkward as he anticipated. It may have something to do with the unabashed adoration Rufus is directing at him, or the way the president grins–actually _grins_ –when he climaxes with a shudder, fingers sticking together as the pale liquid runs down his hand.

“Good boy,” Rufus laughs, clapping his hands in delight. “Now, I feel that a bath is in order.”

Tseng doesn’t move as Rufus gets up, the fog over his mind slowly dissipating. He blinks, looking around as if viewing the room for the first time. Unsurprisingly, Rufus looks just as comfortable naked as he does clothed, but Tseng cannot say the same.

The Turk listens to the water running in the tub, eventually wandering over to where the president is balanced on the edge of the tub. 

“Will you stay here tonight?” he asks. Tseng is taken aback. He honestly didn’t anticipate that the president might ask him to stay, and he answers in a knee-jerk moment of panic.

“I can’t tonight. I’m sorry.” 

“That’s alright,” Rufus says reassuringly, all-too-willing to accommodate him. “I’ll see you again soon.”

“Of course,” he confirms. 

They sit there in communal silence until the tub is mostly filled. Rufus is the first to climb in. Meanwhile, Tseng takes his time in removing his clothes, more nervous about showing off his body than the act of having sex, but Rufus doesn’t pass any judgement, welcoming Tseng with open arms when he joins him.

The water is warm like a summer morning, and the Turk can feel his muscles relax as he slumps down into it. Rufus wastes no time in petting through his hair in soothing waves, and it elicits a gentle moan from his lips. It’s odd how sitting in the bath with his back pressed to Rufus’s chest feels more intimate than having the man’s cock in his mouth.

_Life is strange._

Tseng feels his body growing heavier the longer they soak in the tub, and he eventually lets his head roll onto Rufus’ shoulder, thinking he will only close his eyes for a minute. 

“Rest, my pet.” Rufus’ breath tickles along Tseng’s throat, soft lips pressing against his skin so quickly that he may have only dreamed it. 

He feels himself drifting, the presidential suite fading into black.

* * *

The first thing Tseng notices when he opens is his eyes is how bright it is. The next thing he notices as he squints against the aggressive sunlight, is that he’s not in his bed. Dark sheets and crimson curtains tell him everything he needs to know. He fell asleep in the president’s suite.

 _Shit_.

Tseng sits up groggily, rubbing his palms into his eyes and groaning. Throwing back the covers, the cool air hits his bare skin, forming goosebumps. The president is nowhere to be seen, but Tseng’s clothes are folded carefully over the same chair Rufus sat in the night before. The same chair from which he watched him.

Sighing in resignation, Tseng pivots until his feet hit the floor, walking over to retrieve his suit. Paying careful attention to detail, he puts it on, frowning at the questionable stain of the lapel of his jacket. He’s almost afraid to check his phone, but knows he should.

As he feared, it is long past time for him to be awake, and he has several missed calls and text messages, mostly from Reno demanding to know what the hell is going on. Tseng makes a mental note to come up with a plausible excuse later before sending out one vague text promising that he is not dead or otherwise indisposed. 

“You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you.”

Tseng turns, startled to find Rufus sitting on the edge of his bed, now properly clothed. He never even heard him come in.

“Is that so?” Tseng challenges. He’s irritated that he now has to rearrange his schedule, but tries not to let it show.

“No, actually,” Rufus bluntly admits. “I just wanted to keep you a little longer.” The icy stare is back, the perfect accessory to the president’s heavy coat. Tseng wants to strip both from him. “But run along, my pet. I know you have work to do.”

“Yes sir, I do.” It’s bolder than he’d usually dare to be, but Rufus seems to like it, chuckling good-naturedly. 

“Have that contract to me by the end of the day. I don’t like to be kept waiting.” 

Tseng’s bow is a little more fluid, his smile less fixed, and he even dares to look back over his shoulder when he opens the bedroom door. To his delight, Rufus is still watching him.

“Have a good day, Mr. President.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Reno's first voicemail of many:
> 
> "Hey boss, I'm calling like you said. We got an emergency. Y'see, uh...there's a fire in my pants. (laugh) Better hurry up and come put it out."
> 
> Art by Mage, Twitter: @mgmg_ff
> 
> Feel free to yell at my on twitter (@HardNoctLife) or Tumblr (hard-noct-life)


End file.
